


Beige

by Plajus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plajus/pseuds/Plajus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have the phone number of John’s dad. You have never used it. It's storming out and your eye is bruising up. You doubt he'll answer. Not after what happened between you two last time. You press the call button and uncharacteristically get your hopes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beige

You have the phone number of John’s dad. You have never used it. But once, when you were ten, Mr. Egbert was a chaperone for a school field trip, and you and John got paired with him to walk around the animal farm with. In case of separation, Mr. Egbert gave you his phone number to call him. While growing up and getting new phones, the number just transferred over. The name of the number is still the same. James Egbert. 

You never used it. You _did_ get lost at the animal farm, but Mr. Egbert found you two minutes later hiding in the hay bales. You weren’t a fan of horses. 

You’re looking at the number on your phone right now. You’re sitting on a street curb outside. It’s past midnight. Your eyes are stinging and it’s even more embarrassing now than when it was back up in the apartment with Bro mocking you because of it. No tears allowed in the Strider household. 

It’s all happened before. Fights are frequent now. Growing up, you never realized that your home was different from other homes. You just thought that John’s dad was a weirdo because he was overbearing and you bragged about your freedom; you thought each family was unique in its own way. 

Rose, with her subtle shrink sessions, made your realize other things. 

You realized your friends don’t get pushed down staircases. They don’t have their phobias flaunted in front of them. Your friends have food in their fridges and someone to buy more when the stock is lacking. 

At sixteen you demanded that you and Bro stop strifing. You hated it and it was unnecessary. He had stopped teaching you and just started kicking your ass every time like a show off. His response to your demand was to drag you to the roof, literally kicking and screaming, and threaten to throw you off the edge if you didn’t pick a sword up and fight him. 

You don’t know what to do tonight. You keep staring at the damn number. You don’t know what to tell your friends, and if you did you wouldn’t know how to tell them. They’ve always suspected something was off, but you were the word master. You knew how to tell a good lie even when you hated it.

You’re eighteen. You should be able to handle this. You’re an adult, and after the summer you’re leaving. You’ve considered running, but your friends are what keeps you together. 

You press the call button. 

It’s starting to rain out. You stand while holding the phone to your ear and walk over to the front doors of the apartment building, pressing your back to them so that you can fit your body under the small overhang. 

There’s a reason you’re terrified of calling him. Not only would he know the truth of everything, including tonight, but it’s been hard going to John’s house lately. 

It rings once.

John complains about his dad in the way a son does, but you know John never means it. He complains his dad cooks too much, leaves too many notes, says he’s proud too much. But you and John both know that if his dad ever stopped doing those things then he’d be devastated, and meanwhile you envy every bit of it. 

It started back in January. You spent hours studying for a science test, and you had study sessions at John’s house with Jade there (John’s pretty sucky at science too, for someone who has “biologist” in their chumhandle) since she’s the queen of science. Mr. Egbert watched and made you all dinner and snacks. When you aced that test you showed it to John, and John’s dad was in the room to see it. He put it on the fridge, right next to John’s aced test, and he held them up with magnets that had dumb cooking phrases on them. 

He put your test on the fridge and said he was proud. 

The phone rings again. 

You spend a lot of time at John’s house. You can skateboard there within twenty minutes, or you can take the city bus, and it’s one of your favorite escapes from Bro’s place. It doesn’t feel like your home anymore. John’s house always smells good and he doesn’t even say the word puppet around you and he makes you laugh and doesn’t push you to share when he knows you’re down. 

John’s house also has Mr. Egbert. Mr. Egbert started sneaking lots of extra food into John’s lunch bag when he noticed you losing weight. John pressured you to share his lunch since Bro never refilled your lunch account at school. And Mr. Egbert always packed your favorites. 

At John’s house, Mr. Egbert packs up leftovers for you to take home when you go. Lots of them. You have to eat them all when you get home, because if you store them in the fridge then Bro will devour them all. 

Third ring. 

Early in June, you and your friends graduated. Bro didn’t show up. Your entire chest was wracked with pain the whole time. Your friends knew why and Rose held your hand and you struggle to smile when they called your name and gave you your diploma, and all you thought about was how you were probably going to cry like a baby on the bus ride home. You were so weak and Bro would have been disappointed. 

But Mr. Egbert convinced you to go out to dinner with him and John. Somehow, he knew your guardian failed again. He bought both you and John fancy meals at a restaurant and bragged about how proud he was of the both of you. You spent the night at John’s, and your eyes got watery under your shades when you caught Mr. Egbert hanging up a frame of your high school diploma right next to John’s on the wall. 

Fourth ring. You’re losing hope that he’ll answer. 

That night back then, John had fallen asleep around midnight. You couldn’t sleep. You were happy you had such amazing friends, but you were still devastated that your brother couldn’t show up for one of your most proudest days. He hadn’t even called. You kept telling yourself he had messed up the dates or something, that he had never meant to miss it, but you knew the truth. 

Unable to sleep, you had wandered downstairs. Since you were at the Egberts’ so much, Mr. Egbert had taken to buying apple juice specifically for you. The house lights were off except for a dim light in the kitchen. You lingered in the doorway to see Mr. Egbert at the table smoking his pipe and reading papers spread out on the table. His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt was undone and the gel that held his hair in that slicked back position was coming undone. 

You weren’t thinking about apple juice anymore. You don’t really remember much of what you talked about. Your shades were off, and Mr. Egbert had seen your eyes before, but you had felt so exposed. You remember he stood up and apologized. Apologized for your brother not showing up, and saying that he hoped he helped make you feel better. You told him not to be sorry and wiped your eyes, and then you apologized instead since you were acting weak.

Then he was hugging you. You remember the feel of his big hand spreading against the small of your back, caressing the curve of your spine. His smell. Tobacco, cologne and shampoo. The soft cotton of his shirt. The broadness of his chest. 

He muttered that you were a good boy and you were putty in his hands. You already fell apart every time he called you son, and that really did it for you. 

The rest just… happened. You’re pretty sure you initiated it. A kiss to the neck, the jaw. It was enough to trigger him into taking the lead. It happened against the counter. It happened very quietly. It happened with only one passionate kiss. And it never happened again. 

Fifth ring. He’s sleeping. He won’t answer. 

He panicked after. Said it was wrong. A mistake. He saying “What will John think, what will John think…” You stood there pulling your pants back up wondering why he’s not concerned about what you think. You tried to say that no one has to know. He kept panicking. While his back was turned you went for the door. He called your name, trying to keep his voice down, but you were on the sidewalk by then. The next day when John texted you lied and said that Bro had finally called and you went home to hang out with him. 

It’s down pouring now. Your face is throbbing. You lick your lip, tasting sharp, metallic iron. Thunder rolls over your head and you pull your hood up, hugging yourself and tucking that phone so close to your ear as you listen to the sixth, seventh and eighth ring pass. And then you hear the voice recording. 

You hang up by the time it reaches “You’ve reached James Egbert’s phone—” and just rest your forehead on the glass of the door. It’s probably warmer inside of the lobby, but for some reason you’re making yourself stand out here and punish yourself. Your eyes sting. You’re so very weak. 

Rain on the ground is splattering and putting dark spots on the bottom of your jeans. You glance out at the street as puddles form and the darkness flashes to life, as if it were only one in the afternoon because of the lightning. A loud crack fills the air and your whole body jolts. The lightning reminds you of the sparks that spray off of your sword when you’re desperately trying to protect yourself from Bro’s. 

Then you realize your phone has been vibrating. You’re terrified to see it’s him, even if you did just try to reach him. You’re hiding yourself close to the door, away from the rain and noise as you press the green button. You hold the phone to your ear, but you don’t speak. Neither does he for a bit. 

Then he says, “Dave?” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s almost one in the morning. What are you doing calling at this hour?” 

You shrug, fully aware that he can’t see you. Maybe it’s a distraction so that you can think about a reply, because right now you just feel stupid for even considering this. Why’d you call? You ruined things with him, and you’ve ruined things with John probably, and it’s all thanks to your dumbass dumbass-ness. 

“You busy?” you ask.

“It’s very loud over there, Dave. It’s hard to hear you. Are you outside?”

“Yes.” You clear your throat, realizing you hardly whispered that. “Yeah.” 

“It’s storming out there, son. What’s going on?” 

You suck in a breath that hitches. Another roll of thunder passes over your head while you press your forehead to the door. There’s a light inside that’s flickering. 

You raise your voice just enough to hopefully be heard over the storm. “Can you pick me up?” 

You don’t hear anything for a while. Or maybe it’s too loud outside to hear him. Maybe he muttered something. You maybe hear some rustling or shuffling on the other end, like rubbing fabrics. A door being shut. 

“Where are you?” he finally says. 

“Outside my place.” 

“Give me ten minutes.” 

Still feeling nervous, you hang up the phone and keep trying to keep your hopes up for once in your life. You touch your lip and then pull your hand away, looking at your fingertips. You don’t see blood anymore. You lick around in your mouth until you get that metallic taste and swallow until it’s gone, convincing yourself that it’s really not that bad. It’s just one bad night. 

You daydream, trying to zone out the rain and thunder. You study a leather couch inside the lobby, your eyes blinking slowly as you imagine a different life. One where your comics are actually good and not shit and you have fans and you’re not a disappointment. A life someone else can be proud of. 

Every time a car rolls by, you get nervous. By the fourth one, you’ve given up on your stupid fear and watch a sleek black car roll to a stop by the curb, one that you’ve ridden in hundreds of times after school. 

You rush over to the car to avoid as much rain as you can. He pops the door open for you so you can slip in and yank it closed behind you, blocking out the loud sound of the storm. An oldies station is playing on the radio, very softy. Mr. Egbert doesn’t drive again, instead he watches you. You glance over very briefly at him. 

His usual white button up is untucked and one of the buttons is in the wrong hole, and it’s obvious he threw it on pretty quickly, because his hair isn’t slicked to the side like it usually is and he lacks any tie or nice belt. You must have woken him from a dead sleep. It explains the late call back you got. 

“Are you okay?” he says after the silence goes on too long. 

You nod. 

“David.”

You hate that stern voice, but you also love it. You love that he sounds like a father and that he’s using that tone towards you. You never got stern fatherly lectures when you were growing up, only a brother that just yelled and thrashed when you misbehaved. 

“We got in a fight, I’m fine,” you say. 

You can feel that he’s still staring at you. You shiver and stare at your lap, hoping he’ll leave it at that for now, at least until you can calm down and stop feeling like such a mess up, or an idiot. Or both. 

He starts driving and you relax back in your seat, fidgeting with the seatbelt. Bro never wears one, and you were confused when you were young and Mr. Egbert had a car rule that he wouldn’t even drive if everyone in the vehicle wasn’t buckled up. 

You watch the tall buildings disappear until they’re just accents of the background. You pass small stores and gas stations and only a few other cars since it’s so late out, not to mention the storm. And then you enter suburbia hell, which is actually a place that has only ever granted you solace. 

Neither of you speak the entire car ride. 

When you arrive at his home you notice that John’s car isn’t there. Mr. Egbert sees you looking at the empty spot and he says, “He spent the night at Jade’s.”

Of course he did. 

You get out only after the other man does, following him inside. You know the rules. You take your shoes off and line them up by the other shoes near the door. Mr. Egbert’s hand rests on your back and drags across your shoulder as he passes you and moves towards the staircase while you stand there a little awkwardly. Usually you’re at home in this place. You lounge on the couch, control the remote, and raid the fridge. 

Right now you’re just waiting for a command, or permission. You wonder if he hates you because of what happened last time. 

You hear Mr. Egbert call from upstairs, “Come here, son.” 

You obey to that immediately. 

You climb the stairs while some thunder rolls outside and the rain drums on the windows. There’s a single light on in the hallway that gives a dull yellow glow. Mr. Egbert is next to the hallway closet carrying a blanket and a pillow, and he doesn’t look at you as he turns and puts them in your arms. He goes back to the closet and gets a sheet too and rests that in the pile you’re holding. 

“You’re free to have the couch,” he says. 

“Thank you, sir,” you mutter. 

“You know you can call me James. Come on now.” 

His hand is on the back of your neck, a gentle leading grip to take you back downstairs and you follow immediately.

You know he’ll set up the couch alone because he’s that nice, but you help him anyway. You spread out the sheet, each of you holding one side, and then James puts out the blanket while you fluff up the pillow and lay it down. You probably won’t sleep tonight. 

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks, tucking one edge of the blanket into the couch. 

“Lunch.”

“Are you lying?”

“No, sir.”

“James. What did you eat?” 

“I had a lot of Chinese leftovers that Bro had. Honestly, that’s why he got so pissed off…” 

“Ridiculous,” James scoffs. 

You know it’s ridiculous, but you won’t say anything. You set the pillow down and realize that Mr. Egbert has been done for a while and he’s just watching you. You face him, your hood still up and your shades still on, and suddenly his hand is reaching out and going for your shades. If it were anyone else, you’d slap their wrist and maybe even threaten to break it. But right now you just shy away a few inches. You still let him grab them and you stare at his chest and then his chin and then his icy blue eyes. 

“It’s not too bad,” he murmurs, his fingers holding your jaw as he looks over the bruise by your eye. 

“He broke my camera,” you say. 

“Excuse me?”

“My camera. He broke it.” 

“Which one?”

“The Powershot.”

He knows the one. With a simple part time job, you saved up for two whole months so that you could buy a brand new Powershot Canon camera. Amazing zoom and color and anything an aspiring photographer needed. Mr. Egbert was so proud of all the hours you put in and how responsible you were being by saving your money for it. John came with you to buy the camera and you took a hundred pictures on the ride home. It’s your favorite camera. Was. 

You feel safe here, and James hasn’t spoken, so you continue, “I was being a shit. I was disrespectful and he chucked it at the wall and it broke.” 

It honestly hurts so much more than any fist or words could. He shattered your hard work and passion with one swing towards a wall. 

His hand spreads, cupping your cheek. His hand is big, like Bro’s, but it’s softer. It’s much gentler. His thumb caresses under the bruise and you hold his wrist, staring towards his chest while he tries to meet your eyes. 

“You can stay,” he says. 

“I know. You offer every time I’m over.” 

“And you can still accept it.”

“Sir—”

“James.”

“James…” You take a deep breath. “It’s been a long night. A hard night. I’m not sure I can discuss this right now.” 

He might nod, but you’re still avoiding his eyes. Nevertheless, you keep holding his wrist so that his hand will stay on your cheek because you’re scared he’ll pull away. You need this right now. He can tell that you’re not going to let him leave right now, so he just stays there and holds your cheek and does absolutely nothing else. 

A crack of thunder echoes overhead. Then you say, “Are you mad at me?” 

“Why?”

“Because of last month.”

“No, David. No, of course not. We’re both responsible for something that…” He takes his own deep breath and you let his fingers curl in against your cheek and stroke down to your jaw and neck. “Something that wasn’t bad.” 

You had no idea how badly you needed to hear that from him. Your visible look of relief tells him the same thing. 

“You’re a good kid, Dave,” he says. 

Oh, God. 

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Stop,” you murmur. Your eyes are watering. 

“You’re amazing, son.” 

“Sir. James. I’m going to lose my mind if you keep this up here. Literally lose it. You’re going to have to put up lost mind posters in hope some other more responsible mind owner has found me and is taking care of him.” 

He hushes you and you shut up immediately and on cue. You’ll always obey him. His hand moves to behind your head, fingers stroking against your scalp as he pulls you in. You shuffle forward to follow his lead until your bodies are touching, chests flush and knees touching. Your hood comes back and his lips brush your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

Then he just holds you. A second strong arm holds you around the middle, your bodies fit together. He keeps petting your hair calmly. He just holds you and pressing several slow kisses against your hair and against your temple. Shit, you might still cry. 

You rest your head down on his shoulder, nose and mouth touching his neck. He smells like the tobacco from his pipe, cologne, and the coconut shampoo he uses. There’s a small bit of flour on his shirt. This house always smells like fresh cookies. It truly is your home away from home. 

“Stay in my room,” he speaks softly. Right against your ear. 

You nod right away. 

“Good boy.”

Fuck, shit, Christ, you’ll do anything for that praise. 

“I meant sleep in my room,” he clarifies after a bit. “You don’t have to sleep… _with_ me.”

You actually smile again him and nod, your arms coming up to hold him back now. He cradles you like you’re a child and you’re more than okay with it.

“I know,” you say. 

“Good, good.” He lets out a deep sigh, his chest heaving right against your smaller one. You can feel him swallow, his neck pressed against the curve of your nose and bridge, your head staying tucked under his jaw. He sways a little. Then he says, “I’ll get you a new camera.”

“James, no—”

“Or I’ll pay for the repairs on the old one.”

“You can’t—”

“David.”

You shut up.

“Son, you did nothing wrong. You are more than innocent, okay? I know how hard you worked for that camera and I know how hard you work at school and I can see how much of a friend you are to John. Even this past month, you’ve still made an effort to hang out with him. You’re extraordinary, Dave. You’re as much of a son as John is, and I never got you a graduation present. Just let me pay for the repairs. Please. Do this for me.” 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. 

You nod against him. “Okay.”

“Stay,” he says. “Here. Stay here. I can have the guest bedroom made up for you. We can move all of your stuff here. You and John can stay through college.”

“Please, not tonight.” You hold him tightly, burying your face into his shoulder until your voice is muffled. “Tomorrow. Let’s go to bed. Please.” 

“Of course. Come on, son.”

You sigh out at that little name and follow him up the stairs. He’s still holding your shades in one fist and you stare at them, trying to quell your guilt. He’s your best friend’s dad. This is probably worse than going out with a best friend’s ex. Or a best friend’s enemy.

Then again, John is the kind of person who does his best to understand. When you came out as pan, he hadn’t heard of it and he seemed like he didn’t want to talk to you for the rest of the day. The following day he came back saying he had done research on pansexuality and just like that he was over it and accepting you. You wonder how long he’ll struggle with this. Maybe “this” won’t go anywhere anyway. 

Lightning causes bars of brightness to flash against the wall through the blinds, patterning across James’ body as he stands at the end of his bed and unbuttons his shirt. You stand near the doorway and watch. He sets your shades down on the nightstand and slips the shirt away. You wonder how old he is, because he still looks so good. 

When he notices that you haven’t moved he comes over to you and you feel nervous again. His fingertips brush down the rising bruise by your eye, and then his hands are lightly holding the bottom of your hoodie and tugging up, almost as a question. You reply with an unspoken yes and lift your arms up over your head almost lazily, letting him take off the hoodie that makes a soft _fwump_ against the floor. He goes for your shirt next. 

 

 

The digital clock on Mr. Egbert’s nightstand says it’s five in the morning. Bro called repeatedly earlier. James finally answered and took your phone downstairs where you couldn’t hear him, but ten minutes later he was back and crawling back into bed and whispering for you not to worry. 

If James had been wearing lipstick, your entire upper body would be covered in lipstick right now. He never went farther than that. He just kissed and kissed, your shoulders and chest and arms and stomach and face, kissed and kissed until you were a puddle. Every kiss came with a little compliment that stayed with you.

He strayed down under your hips once and you didn’t know how to say no. He read your body though. He stopped immediately and went back up, telling you it was all right.

But now it’s five and he’s fast asleep. You sit up in bed, unable to sleep. As usual. You watch him, feeling like some creepy Edward Cullen. You keep having these small attacks of anxiety when you think about hurting John. Or when you think about Bro hurting you when he finds out that you’ve told the entire truth to Mr. Egbert. But when the worrying hurts your chest too much you just roll over into James’ chest, knowing he can help you carry the pain that won’t stop welling up inside of you. 

John will understand. He’s a good listener, and if he just sat down and heard you then he’d understand. You’ll tell him the truth about Bro, even when you’re pretty sure John’s always kind of known or at least wondered. You’ll tell him that James has been the parent you never had and it helps you feel so happy. He’ll understand. It’ll be okay. You’ll be all right. 

“Dave.”

You flinch. The only sound you’ve heard for the last hour is the soft pattern of rain. The storm and thunder is gone. You glance at James who actually looks cute all tired and gazing up at you. His fingers spread out against the small of your back, his flesh warm against yours. 

“It’s okay,” he mutters.

You wonder if he’s really awake or if he has 24/7 fatherly instinct in gear. 

You look over at the window and stare quietly. You don’t want to sleep. For a while, James stays awake (or half-awake), his hand gently rubbing on your spine. Then his hand gently holds around your middle, trying to pull you down, but you know he would never force you into something. His actions and words are always just suggestions. 

You lay down. He holds you to his side, rubbing your back again as his heart beats under your ear. A single bird tweets outside for the first time in hours, signaling that the morning will approach soon enough. 

Ever so softly he whispers, “What color do you want your new room to be?”

You curl your finger in a circle against his chest and yawn. His arm curves around your shoulders so that he can hold your jaw, tilting your head up. It’s still dark in the room, but he squints to look at your bruise. He seems satisfied that it’s not too bad because he lets go of you again and then rests back, letting out a deep and tired sigh as he just holds onto you. 

“Beige,” you say.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for editing this when i was too lazy to riley<3 (you can follow this homestuck trash shipping nerd at amnesicartisan.tumblr.com) Hope you all enjoyed~ i'm hoping to start a dirkhal in the future. comments are always appreciated or even just you reading is appreciated. i post updates and lots of trash on my tumblr, or you can just bug me if you have any questions about the story and stuff~ (plajus.tumblr.com) thanks paaaals


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